Broken
by PavartiJanus
Summary: In a world ravaged by the dead, the living have to struggle to survive. This is a re-telling of an episode of The Walking Dead, with some of the main characters replaced with Pentatonix members. Rated T, but there may be some graphic gore. Mitch Grassi, Scott Hoying, Kirstie Maldonado, Kevin Olusola, Avi Kaplan, Pentatonix, The Walking Dead
1. Chapter 1

"Get him in here!" The woman called, swiping the table clear with her arm and scattering the objects onto the floor, "Hurry!"

Scott had no idea why she was helping him, but he couldn't afford to reject her. He used his last bit of strength to make it up the porch steps, and two people he didn't know removed Mitch's dead weight from his shoulders. There was so much blood that had exited the smaller man, having seeped from the wound and down Scott's torso, staining his shirt crimson.

"Just save him!" Scott collapsed onto his hands and knees, and the panic he'd had to ignore while he made the trek to the house, started to manifest itself. He was wheezing for breath, and his mind was caught on the image of Mitch falling to the ground, instantly unconscious.

"Was he bit?" An older man growled at him with urgency, "Was he bit?!"

Scott shook his head and managed in a shaky voice, "No. Shot."

"Hershel!" Someone called from inside, "It's bad!"

The white haired man rushed inside, and Scott rose, light-headed and weak, to follow him.

Mitch was much too pale, and his shirt was open where the women had cut it. Blood was everywhere, and more of it than should be possible for a human being to emit was starting to pool on the tabletop. Scott felt faint, and must have looked like a ghost, standing there in shocked disbelief. Hershel took a wadded up kitchen towel and pressed it against the wound. "What happened?" He asked in a calm, but firm voice.

"Shot. Just-"

The chubby man with the goatee, who was just as stunned as Scott was, began stuttering, "I-I don't know. I was hunting and I-I didn't see him."

"We have to keep pressure on it."

"It went through the deer and-just hit him. I can't believe..." The man faded off, his eyes wide and scared.

"No exit wound. That means the bullet's still in there. Broken into pieces. Probably four or five of 'em, What's his blood type?"

There was so much happening. So many people buzzing around. So much shouting. And Mitch, lying pale and quiet on the dining room table. "Um, A positive," Scott's voice betrayed him, and came out weak and cracking, "Same as me."

Hershel gave him a look, "That's fortunate. Stay nearby. We'll need a blood transfusion."

Avi entered, having lagged behind as Scott charged across the field, his own shoulders covered in blood from where he'd taken a turn carrying Mitch. "How bad is it?"

"Son, I suggest you stay back," Hershel swapped out the blood soaked towel for a new one, the pressure on Mitch's abdomen forcing air out of his lungs.

Avi touched the back of his beanie, which had somehow stayed on, then took it off as he felt the blood soaking it. Back there in the forest, the man had told them about the farm, but it was two miles from where they'd stood. So Avi and Scott were forced to take turns hauling Mitch, army style, across their shoulders, and make their way as quickly as possible through wilderness and grassy fields. They both felt impossibly drained, dehydrated, and faint, but seeing their friend unconscious and bleeding kept adrenaline rushing.

Scott didn't know what to do. He desperately wanted to help with something, but the man seemed to be a doctor and they had no choice but to trust him. He winced as one of the women, a nurse maybe, inserted an IV into Mitch's forearm.

"Beth? Get clean sheets on the bed, and bring me my bag." Somehow the man remained calm, and the flow of blood actually seemed to be slowing down. But Mitch was even paler, almost as white as a sheet.

"Can you give blood?" It wasn't a question. Hershel was looking down at his work, but everyone knew who he was talking to.

Scott sank into a chair, getting dropped abruptly as his legs gave out halfway there, and let the I.V. woman push his sleeve up and turn the widest part of his forearm upward. He was in a daze by now, and his emotions were such a jumble, that he didn't feel the needle as it entered him. His gaze was set on that body, growing ever-closer to death as time ticked by. He normally reacted badly to blood draws, but this time watching his own blood fill the tube and enter the bag was unremarkable. He was too lightheaded already, too in shock, and too exhausted.

"Kirstie and Kevin. They don't know." Scott realized, "They don't know."

Avi plucked at the front of his shirt and pulled the wet fabric where the blood made it cling to his skin. His eyes were vacant, and his hands were trembling, "I'll tell them."

"I have to go," Scott rubbed his face with his free hand, "It's my fault. I told him he could come and he should have stayed behind. Kirstie doesn't know."

"Hey," Avi kneeled in front of Scott and placed a hand on his shoulder, "I'll go. You need to stay here. He needs you."

And in that moment, Scott knew he was right. He nodded in defeat, and he watched his blood in the tube. Mitch did need him. Scott's blood was liquid gold in this situation. He just wished he could give all of it.

Avi stood, replacing the bloody beanie on his head, and started to head toward the door before one of the women tending to Mitch stopped him.

"I'll go too. It'll be faster."

An apprehensive glance and a nod, and the pair exited.

The blonde girl returned with a black leather bag, and dumped it on the table by Mitch's legs.

"Get me the gauze," The man was cutting down the fabric of Mitch's sleeves, and he discarded the mangled shirt onto the floor, his hands gently replacing the pale man's head on the tabletop. The girl handed it to him, so he pressed a wad of it against the wound.

Scott suddenly was sickened by all the blood. His hands were sticky with the half-dried stuff, and his shirt was soaked by it. His own blood was being collected in a bag, and he was beginning to feel drained. When a good amount of it had accumulated, the woman pulled the needle from Scott's arm and instructed him to hold his finger over the pin prick as she transferred the bag to the table. Inserting one end of the tube in a valve on the side of Mitch's IV drip, the clear liquid turned scarlet and began to enter Mitch's body.

Scott didn't have the strength to even stand up now, and he could only watch helplessly, unable to feel anything but desperation. Mitch had to live. He had to. Even if it meant Scott would have to give every drop of his own blood.


	2. Chapter 2

_Hi, and welcome back._

 _This chapter has some graphic depictions of gore and may be distressing for some readers, so view at your own discretion (For anyone who's seen The Walking Dead, you already know what's coming)._

 _Thank you all, and leave a review!_

 _xxx_

It was starting to get dark, and Scott was passively watching the pinks and purples of sunset dull into slate gray as clouds filled the sky outside the window. His body was numb from staying put in the same position so long, his head resting on his arms where they were folded on the mattress, but he could still feel his hand where it clasped the slender tattooed one. His head was full of turbulent thoughts, but one thing stayed at the front of his mind: the way the skin remained warm in his hand. It was warm, his heart was still beating, air was still filling his lungs, and he was healing. He'd been on that kitchen table for hours before he was stable enough to move, and they'd managed to get him to the bed without the bleeding starting again.

He hadn't woken up though. He'd remained unconscious from the moment his head hit the ground after the bullet had ripped through him, through the two mile charge through the woods, through the endless needles and bandages. And now here he was, lying on his back, his arms at his sides and his head slightly turned where it was supported by a pillow. His beautiful brown eyes were closed, his lashes dark in contrast to his paper white skin, and those perfect lips were slightly open. His arched brows and short hair seemed much darker than usual.

Scott pulled his head up and let his sweaty grip on Mitch's hand loosen, "Hey, bitch." He used one of the nicknames they often used for each other, but it held none of the playfulness this time, so it felt wrong, "I mean Mitch. You'll be okay. I know it."

Kirstie's urgent footsteps came, then her face froze in an expression of horror and disbelief, "No." She managed through a constricted throat, and dissolved into tears as Scott stood to hold her body against his in an embrace. Her eyes were focused on the bed, and her voice came in hiccuped gasps against his shirt, then she pushed past him to fall to her knees by the bed. "Mitch! Oh my God, I-Fuck, Mitch!" She touched his face, then his hair, "How did this happen?"

"He was shot. We were in the woods and we saw a deer. Bullet went straight through the deer and hit him."

"What?" She hiccuped back a sob, "did you get the bullet out?"

There was a voice from the door, "We can't wait much longer. We have to get the shards out. The sooner the better." Like a stern guardian, Hershel stood watching the two.

Scott swallowed the lump in his throat, gave Mitch's hand a squeeze, then nodded.

Kirstie shook her head, "No, you can't. You'll hurt him."

"He has several bullet shards inside him. They're cutting into him as we speak and we can't leave them in. I have to get them out while he's stable." Hershel fiddled with a pair of surgical pliers in his hand.

She shook her head, her messy bun falling loose with the motion, her grown out blonde ends falling around her shoulders, "He'll die. Won't he? Nobody can take that kind of pain, can they?"

"It'll hurt, yes, but we need to do this. It's his only chance."

She looked around the room, as if desperate for another answer, and her grip on Mitch's arm left white marks on his skin. Finally, there was a look of defeat in her eyes as she realized that Hershel was right. "Okay. Okay." Kirstie gave in, her shoulders slumping and her grip relaxing.

"Come on girls!" Hershel called, "It's time. We need some strong arms."

"What? Why?" Scott stepped aside so Hershel could approach the bed.

"I need you to hold him down. He won't stay unconscious while we do this, and it'll get ugly."

"You don't have any anesthesia or anything? He's just gonna watch while you stick those into him?"

Hershel didn't answer.

Avi entered, looking lost and horrified, followed by the two girls, Maggie and Beth, then Kevin and the woman who'd taken Scott's blood. They all grouped around the bed, looking down on the sleeping man, and each placed their hands on his body. Hershel opened his bag of supplies and poised the pliers over the wound. Pulling the blanket down around Mitch's waist and removing the gauze pad, Hershel gave Scott a look, "I need you to hold his shoulders, and girls, hang on tight. You can't let go, no matter how hard he fights. This has to be quick, and he has to be as still as possible."

Scott pushed Mitch's collarbone into the mattress.

Then it started.

Hershel gently pushed the wound open with the pliers, nudging mangled skin aside, and slid the tool partially inside the bullet hole.

Mitch inhaled deeply, his head turning to one side.

Scott hated that he was positioned over Mitch's face, his arms locked and his grip sweaty against his chest. He had to watch him in pain.

Mitch stirred again, his breathing quickening as Hershel's tool sunk deeper into his abdomen. His breaths turned ragged, and erratic, and he slowly awoke. His eyes opened, disoriented at first, his brow creased with concern, confusion, and pain, and he looked downward, his breath hitching in his throat. His eyes widened in horror, and his body reacted to the intruding tool, pulling away from Hershel's hands. It must have been just then that the pain registered, because his voice ripped through his throat in a bloodcurdling scream. He jerked against the hands pinning him down, and pushed upward hard enough to make Scott almost lose his grip.

Scott just watched him in horror stricken silence, his eyes focused on Mitch's as they squeezed shut, his back arching as his head tipped backward. The screams were unbearable, and held little resemblance to the voice he knew. Hershel was picking inside him for the bullet pieces, and blood started spilling from the wound and running down Mitch's side. He was fighting so hard, the muscles in his arms taut like wires and his hands balled into fists.

The voice was like the one Scott had imagined when he'd let his mind go there, to the dark thoughts that came in the night. He'd always known the day would come when Mitch would die. His mind had created the horrific image, and haunted him with it when he tried to sleep. What if? He knew there'd be a day when Scott couldn't protect him anymore. He'd pictured a walker sinking his rotten stumps deep into the soft flesh of Mitch's neck, tearing his jugular with a sickening sound. Blood was shooting, and Scott was desperately trying to get to him in time, but knowing it was too late. And the screams were almost animalistic, inhuman, agonized, like the ones Mitch was making right now.

It wasn't the way Scott had imagined it, but this could be the way his best friend died. Here in this bed, being pinned down and forced to endure it.

Scott found himself sobbing, his hands maintaining the grip, but feeling every jerk of Mitch's muscles, every ragged inhale, and every pound of his heart with knife-like clarity.

Mitch's eyes made contact with his, and for a split second there was an expression of betrayal, confusion, and pleading before he arched back into the pillow again. His neck was taut, the veins standing out, and his screams turned into gasps for breath. Tears were escaping his eyes, and sweat was beginning to stand out on his face and heaving chest. Then the gasps turned into panting, and his muscles relaxed.

"What's happening? What's wrong?" Scott blinked the tears back.

Mitch's eyes closed, and he relaxed completely, his head turned at an awkward angle, so Scott gently corrected it. Why was he so limp?

"It's okay. He's just passed out." Hershel gave a grunt and turned the pliers as gently as possible, but it still made Mitch jerk. Blood was still flowing freely down Mitch's side, almost faster than Hershel could mop it up with gauze. He shook his head, worry creasing his brow, "This isn't gonna work. I can't get it all out now. He'll bleed out before I get all of it." He gave one last pull and the pliers were free of the wound, bringing with it a bloody, sharp piece of metal. Scott let go of Mitch's shoulders and took his head in his arms, holding him to his chest.

"What does that mean?" Kirstie murmured from the floor where she'd watched the whole thing, "You can't save him?"

"It means I need proper supplies. Pain medication, anesthesia, and I need a respirator. He's not going to survive the procedure without it." Hershel moved the gauze up to the wound and applied pressure as the others backed away from the bed.

"Procedure?"

"We have to operate." He said gently, as though his words might break her.

"What's that?" Avi pointed at Mitch's abdomen. All heads turned to see what he was gesturing at, and a collective buzz of confusion began to fill the room.

Hershel was the only one whose face sobered with understanding. He looked closer at the markings appearing across Mitch's stomach, and shook his head slowly, "Not good," He ran his fingers along the faint brownish purple streaks. They almost looked like bruises, and stretched from around the center of his abdominal area, and down his side. "He's bleeding internally. Maybe something was jostled loose, or I nicked something on the way out. This is bad."

"What do we do?" Scott set his jaw, and his heart pounded against Mitch's temple where he held his head against his chest.

"We have to do the surgery as soon as possible, and we need to find the supplies for it."

"Christ." Kevin ran a hand over his hair and turned toward the window.

Kirstie unsteadily rose to her feet, "Where the hell are we gonna find stuff like that?"

"The school," The chubby man interjected as the thought came to him, "There's a few ambulances from the outbreak, and I'll bet they're full of that kind of stuff."

"Yeah, but there's one problem," The one with the short, mousy brown hair and army green tank top folded her arms. Maggie, was it? "Last we were over there it was overrun."


	3. Chapter 3

All was quiet in the house. Scott was numb with the silence, his eyes half closed, and watched the slow rhythm of Mitch's breathing. He was feeling strangely hollow as his blood filled the bag that he had hooked on his finger, feeling the sac get heavier as it bumped his leg. Kirstie was outside the blankets, reclining alongside Mitch, her head and shoulders resting against the headboard and her arm supporting his head. She thoughtfully stroked Mitch's index finger.

"I think he's a little paler," She lifted the edge of the blanket, then put it down again as she saw the mottled, bruised skin as the internal bleeding crept upward, "It's getting worse."

"It'll be okay. Avi and Otis have been gone for an hour now, so they should be back in a while," The emptiness in his voice didn't sound very comforting, but he thought he'd try.

"What if he doesn't make it a while?"

"He will."

She turned to Hershel, who was watching over them in silent contemplation, "What can we do if they take too long?"

The older man pushed his flossy white hair back from his receding hairline, "I wouldn't recommend it. It's highly risky."

"What can we do?" She demanded, a little harsher than Scott had ever heard the sweet, gentle Kirstie from before the outbreak.

"We can do the surgery without the supplies. I have enough to do what I have to, but it's close to impossible. He could bleed out on the table or go into respiratory or cardiac arrest. And I can't get the shards out without the anesthesia. You already saw how that went." She didn't answer, so he continued, "He'd wake up and I don't think you want to see him in that much pain again. Or worse, we could wait too long to try the surgery and he won't wake up at all. In which case…"

"In which case, what?" Scott was surprised by how small his voice sounded. Well, maybe he shouldn't be surprised; he'd been on this blood drain for a while now.

"In which case, he's already too far gone. Cutting him open and taking the bullet pieces out would take away whatever time he has left. I'm sorry. It doesn't look good."

"How much time can we wait?"

Hershel gave a measuring glance up and down Mitch's body, then gave a sigh, "A couple more hours? Four at the most."

Xxx

"This it?" Avi held his loaded assault rifle close to his chest. His breath came back to him as the two leaned their empty backpacks on an overturned sedan.

Otis nodded and fixed his baseball cap over his graying prickle of hair. He was sweating so much already, and it was making his goatee dark with moisture. They both looked over the hood of the vehicle, across the twilit empty plane of the abandoned street. About thirty yards away lie the gate to the school, and he knew beyond the wrought iron, dozens of walkers were roaming. The last of the sun was dying and casting the world into gray, murky fog. This was probably the worst time for them to be attempting something this ludicrous, but they were running out of time. They both knew a broken Mitch was lying a few miles away, bleeding to death into his abdominal cavity.

"You still up for this? I can go in alone." The deep, bass tones sounded determined.

"No. This is my fault. I hurt your friend, so I have to come with you. Call it a redemption."

Avi nodded, "How many bullets?"

"Twenty two."

"Show me your knife."

In response, the overweight man drew a machete from a holster he wore through the belt loops on his overalls.

"Kay. Listen to me. We light the flare, draw them away, then get past them into the school. You know where the setup with the supplies are, so lead the way once we get inside."

Otis nodded.

"And hey. Don't fire unless you have to. The sound draws them. Use that blade of yours as much as you can." Avi thrust his beanie into his backpack. His hands were still crimson with dried blood as he reached back to tie his hair out of his eyes.

With a final nod and a preparatory deep breath, the two shouldered their weapons and held their blades close, then stepped into the open air.


	4. Chapter 4

_The story line is a little different than it was in the show, but most of the elements are the same. One difference I decided to make, besides the father/son dynamic between Carl and his dad, was the fact that Avi is too much of a sweetheart to go "full Shane," so I plan to tweak Shane/Avi's character and Otis' "contribution" a tad._

xxx

Scott's eyes followed the last of his blood as it traveled from the plastic bag down the narrow tube, sliding its way into Mitch's tattooed arm. It was getting late. The sky was black now with the misty night that overtook the world like the fear that was smothering his heart "Please, Avi. Hurry." He murmured under his breath.

Mitch was paler, and the blood transfusion did nothing to banish the white. Scott imagined it was running straight into his abdomen, making the purple-black blotch bigger. Desperation was beginning to take hold. Scott was almost willing to let Hershel do the surgery without the supplies.

"Maybe this is the wrong call." Kirstie quietly rose from her place beside Mitch's body.

"What do you mean?"

"Do we really want him to get through this?"

Scott was stunned, "You… want him to die?"

"No-I mean… Maybe it'd be kinder."

"How the fuck would that be kinder?" He had to stop himself from throwing something or punching the wall. He was so baffled by Kirstie's proposition, it was hard to grip the reasoning. How could she say that?

"Listen. The world is broken. Mitch is broken. Do we really want this to be his life? To be scared all the time? To have to watch terrible things be done, have to make horrible choices? He was just shot, for God's sake!" She was so small, her arms folded across her chest, but the way she stood, adamantly planted, he was surprised by how easy it was to forget how strong she could be. "He won't ever be able to stop running. Fighting. He already saw his loved ones die. Do you want him to live long enough to be ripped apart? Or to see us ripped apart? One day, we won't be able to protect each other. And this world isn't getting better."

"I don't know. I don't know what to do."

"Well," She embraced him, burying her forehead against his chest, "It's your choice. He's closest to you. Whatever you decide, I'm with you."

Xxx

They made it in without too much trouble. The flare had effectively drawn the walkers away, clearing a way for the two to enter the school. But now that they were here, hurrying down the hall, Avi was constructing a plan for how to get out. Even though it had been years since high school, the empty halls and lockers reminded him of his teenagedom. Part of him wished he could be back in the days before the world went to shit.

"Come on," Otis led him along, his machete drawn protectively in front of him, "There was kind of a mini-hospital set up in the gym before this place was overrun."

Avi gripped his knife tightly in his hand as the shuffling shape of a walker emerged from a fork in the hallway, and quickly plunged the blade into its temple, cutting off its hungry groans. Blood was flung in a spray as the body slumped to the linoleum floor. He barely had time to register that it was a woman.

It was so dark in here, and Avi's breath was coming in panicked rasps. Any number of walkers could come at them at any time, pinning them in a corner, trapping them in a room, or forcing them into a dense group of flesh-eating monsters. He didn't want to end up like… He shook his head, clearing the image from his mind. They just had to keep moving. He couldn't afford to let his fear stop him.

Xxx

"He's awake," Hershel noticed the brunette stirring. Scott and Kirstie flocked to the bed as Mitch inhaled deeply, turning his head to the side.

"Mitch?" Scott took his hand in his, "Can you hear me?"

Slowly, Mitch's brown eyes opened, focusing on Scott's face, then Kirstie's, "Scott."

"It's okay, Queen," Scott placed a hand on his forehead, "How are you feeling?"

He closed his eyes and let a gust of air through his nose as the pain throbbed in his temples, but somehow, a hint of smile grew on his face, "Did you see the deer?"

"I saw it."

"It was amazing. I've never been so close to one in my life. It just stood there, looking at me." His voice was barely more than a whisper, "It was so beautiful."

"I know. You have to promise me something, Mitchy. You have to hold on. We're gonna save you, but we just have to wait a little longer."

But Mitch didn't appear to have registered what he said. His eyes had glossed over, his face relaxing.

"Mitch?"

Nothing.

Scott placed his ear on the center of his chest, frantically searching for a heartbeat. He couldn't be dead. He couldn't.

But he was breathing, and the steady beat of his heart was there, reassuring under his ear. So what was wrong? "Hershel?" He heard his voice rise in panic as he turned to the old man for help.

Then a movement went through Mitch's body. It was like a shudder, undetectable at first, but then it grew in intensity.

"What's going on?" Kirstie watched in horror as Hershel simply moved the man onto his side. He did nothing to stop the movement that grew to uncontrollable jerks, "Help him!"

"He's seizing. He's not getting enough blood to his brain," He placed a hand on Mitch's shoulder so he wouldn't turn back onto his back, "There's nothing I can do. He has to ride it out. We need more blood though." Hershel looked at Scott, a pained expression in his gentle eyes, "I normally wouldn't ask you this, Scott. You've already given too much. But can you give blood again?"

He nodded in determination, rolling his sleeve up past the gauze pad he had taped to his arm, "Take as much as you need."

"Scott, don't!" Kirstie attempted, "You almost passed out last time, and that was only two hours ago."

"I'll be fine. Mitch needs me."


	5. Chapter 5

Gradually, his world came back to him in a haze of yellow light. Oh. The lamp on the nightstand was the source of the light. But why did he feel so disoriented?

"Scott? You okay?" The weathered face of the old man came into view, and Scott was aware of a hand on his shoulder, "You passed out. I had to stop the blood transfusion."

"What? Why?" He pulled himself upright from where he'd slumped over in his chair, "Did you get enough?"

"We got some. I can't take any more though. It's time we thought about doing that surgery though, Scott. Time's running out."

He looked up at Mitch who, to his relief, had stopped the seizing, but instead was lying as still and as pale as he would if he was already dead. His unfinished Spongebob sleeve, having faded and blurred a little, looked almost 3D on his pasty skin. Those tattooes made him sad; they reminded him of a world where cartoons played, people he loved were close by, and colors filled his life. Now the only things left of that past were these inked markings. He was left in a world of danger, terror, misery, and rotting, shambling corpses.

He found himself blocking a memory with all his might, straining to keep tears back. He'd lost so many people. So many friends and close loved ones had been lost. Some he didn't get to say goodbye to, and some he had to say goodbye to much too soon. He couldn't bring himself to think of the blood or the terrible screams, or the way that small boy felt in his arms as he sobbed over his little broken body. But he whispered the name.

"Landon."

"What?" Kirstie lifted her head off his lap.

He hadn't noticed her there where she sat leaning against his shin, but he was glad she was close by, "His life ended too soon. He's gone. And maybe that's 'kinder,' as you said, but I would give anything for him to be here. We can't let that happen to Mitch. I couldn't go on if I lost him too."

"But maybe we should. It isn't always about you."

"But he talked about the deer."

She frowned, turning to face him, "What do you mean?"

"He woke up. He didn't ask why he was shot, or why God let this happen. He didn't give up. He _smiled_. He remembered that there is still beauty in the world, even when bad things happen. He can still see beauty. Don't you get that?" Scott turned toward Hershel, his head foggy and his body aching with emptiness, "Do the surgery."


	6. Chapter 6

His breath burned in his throat, his lungs heaving with panic, "Come on!" Avi forcefully gripped Otis' overall strap and hauled him along. The overweight man was having a hard time keeping up, his body close to shutting down and his breathing coming in blasts. They couldn't stop. They _couldn't._ The backpacks added more weight and they both struggled to jog around the back building of the school, a direction they were forced to take as a result of a drastic change in events.

It had happened: the thing that Avi feared the most. They were stopped at every corner by a mass of rotting bodies, writhing and crying and clawing for their blood as they encountered them in every hallway. The two fought their way through the corpses, coating their clothes and knives with the slick, repulsive stench of death as they hacked and slashed their way through dozens of the creatures, but Avi's leg was slowing him down. It had happened when he was forced to leap from a second storey window, his weight splinting his shin and sending a shooting, fiery pain up to his spine. Now the two were losing momentum and fell against a chain link fence. They'd lost the masses for now.

"I just need a second to catch my breath," Otis wheezed, his words coming in bursts, "My chest is burning."

"We can't stop. We don't know how long before we're blocked and have to loop through the woods." Avi wished he could fall over and give up. "Mitch doesn't have a lot of time." Adrenaline rushed in his ears, almost blocking out the world around him. It felt like his entire shin was one red-hot poker, the burn radiating up to his hip socket and causing him to drag his leg. It didn't matter how hard he strained or how hard he ran; he was only able to manage a pace that was a little faster than a speed walk.

Otis was suffering too. His excessive body weight was weighing him down almost as much as Avi's leg was, and with each minute of running his pace slowed. He didn't have the endurance that Avi did and his body wasn't letting him keep going. The backpacks were feeling heavier, their dead weight like hands on their shoulders, trying to pull them to the ground.

Suddenly, with a blast of screaming and a surge of movement, the two were forced away from the fence as a mass of walkers shoved against the chain link.

Avi screamed, the sudden movement tearing his bad leg out from under him and dumping him to the ground. This was it. He couldn't get up. Not with his leg like this or this backpack bound to his body. His arms were like lead from swinging his knife, and he couldn't tell if the blood on his hands was Mitch's, his own, or the walkers'. He could feel little dots of pain ripple up through his forearms as gravel broke the skin.

But Otis hauled him to his feet and he managed to resume his desperate hobble, "We just have to make it to the car. It's around the next building."

But no. More of them were rising up ahead of them in a big black mass of movement, lurking out of the darkness. There was no way Avi could keep fighting them; he'd be grabbed and trapped, the walkers dragging him down to tear him limb from limb. The only way he could do this was if he avoided them. "Let's cut through the parking lot." It was the longer way, but it was the only way he could foresee an outcome that didn't end in blood.

"Avi," Otis' voice was raspy with exhaustion as he followed behind him at a pace that rapidly slowed to a shuffle, "I can't do this."

"Yes you can. It's maybe another quarter of a mile." Avi looked over his shoulder.

Otis, his face lax and his clothes dark with sweat, had a look in his eyes that spelled defeat, "We can't do this. I can't." And with that, he tripped over his feet and hit the ground.

"No! Otis!" Avi dropped onto his knees at his side, "You have to make it. It's just a little further."

The man's fingers were unbuckling the backpack from around his waist, "You have to take this. Save Mitch."

"No. What're you talking about?" He gripped him by the overall straps again and tried to pull him upright, "You can do this."

Otis took Avi's upper arm in a death grip, his eyes suddenly becoming hard and steely, "Listen to me now, Avi. You have to keep going. Neither of us can make it if I don't do this."

"Do what? Otis!" His eyes moved upward to monitor the situation. The moving mass was coming closer and would soon be upon them, their individual cries and growls merging in a cacophony of noise.

"Stay behind. They're gonna get me." His voice had the finality of the tomb, his eyes melting into a sad, defeated expression, "I didn't tell you. I wanted to help as long as I could, but," He pulled up his pant leg.

There, black with blood and oozing with the dark liquid, was a deep set of teeth marks, mangling the skin. He'd been bitten.

Avi froze, his head frantically making sense of the new information. He'd been bitten? But he'd been with him the whole time. It suddenly dawned on him: it was that moment in the school when he'd been pulled down and Avi had put a bullet in the walker's skull. He'd thought Otis was okay, but the walker had done its damage after all.

"Otis."

"Take the backpack. Save that boy. When he wakes up, tell him I'm sorry I hurt him." He pressed the backpack into Avi's hands, "Tell Patricia I love her."

"No. I'm not leaving you." Avi gave another heave, "We can get home together. Tell her you love her yourself."

Otis broke away, thrusting the backpack with more force, then stood on shaky legs, "The respirator's in there. Take it." Then, with a turn and a battle cry, he drew his machete and walked toward the oncoming horde.

"Otis!" Avi screamed, but his body forced him to move in the opposite direction. Through the crushing feelings of horror, disbelief, and anguish, he knew that Otis was right: this was probably their only chance. He put his head down and tried to force the tears back, but only because he needed his eyesight. He made his way through the newly cleared pathway as walkers were drawn to the commotion, and deep down, Aiv gave his silent thanks.

The sounds of Otis' last fight echoed in his head, even though he refused to watch, and finally the death cry rang in the night.


	7. Chapter 7

Everything suddenly was a blur of motion and a dizzying amount of noise. As soon as Scott had given the okay, Hershel began giving commands left and right, his hands working quickly, "Patricia, get the table. We're doing this without the supplies," He rolled his sleeves past his elbows and stripped the blanket off the bed. Mitch, still in his jeans and socks, was as pale as a ghost, his breathing beginning to come in shallow gasps, "The blood is putting pressure on his diaphragm. Beth, honey, get my things and all the supplies you can find. And towels. We'll need lots of them."

The blonde girl nodded and left, and the woman, Patricia, Scott guessed, wheeled the stainless steel kitchen island into the room.

"Scott, put the IV bag on the sheet," Hershel removed the pillow from under Mitch's head, his hand tucked behind his neck as he lowered it gently to the mattress, "Everyone, we're gonna take a side of the sheet. Lift on one, two..."

The sheet worked as a kind of stretcher between persons, supporting Mitch in a relatively flat position as they transferred him to the metal table. Patricia was taking the shade off a standing lamp, illuminating the bruised plane of Mitch's abdomen in bright yellow light.

"Everyone listen. We have to hold him down like before, but this time as soon as I make the incision the blood in his abdominal cavity will come out. There'll be a lot of it, about a liter, so stay calm. Hold him still." He began peeling the gauze pad away from the wound.

"I want to help," Scott attempted to rise from the chair, but fell back with a rush of vertigo.

"You need to sit this one out," Hershel donned some blue gloves as Beth came in with a cooking tray full of instruments.

"But let me give blood. Anything!" His eyes were caught on the outline of Mitch's profile as he lied flat on the table with one arm dangling off the side. He looked so small, there on the table like a lab animal or one of those patients on the medical dramas. His face was like he was sleeping, the full lips slightly open and his long lashes dark against his skin.

"Son, if you give anymore you could go into a coma. You've done all you can." Hershel placed Mitch's arm on the table alongside his body and straightened his head.

This was it. Hershel's knife could either save Mitch's life and give him a future, or it could be the end. The screaming would start and the blood was all going to come out; the mixture of Mitch's and Scott's blood that ran through his veins and filled his abdominal cavity was going to spill out in a pool of crimson. His heart could stop, he'd seize again, his lungs could stop working or his brain could die; all of these were all-too-possible outcomes of this operation. But it was his only chance. Scott knew that. He just wished it didn't have to be this way.

Suddenly, Hershel stopped his purposeful movement, his gloved hands falling to rest on the table beside Mitch.

Why did he stop? Scott was filled with an angry kind of confusion, but as Hershel turned toward him, his eyes held an expression of relief, and then Scott could hear it too.

The low hum of a car engine approaching. Avi was back.


	8. Chapter 8

_Hello! I did something fun with this chapter and included one of my readers as a character in the story. For those of you who've watched the show, she has replaced Beth Greene for this fic. I thought it'd be a fun way to engage readers and add depth to the story._

 _If any other readers would like to be included in a future chapter of any of my stories, just PM me with a pseudonym and your favorite PavartiJanus story!_

 _xxx_

She knew him. This wasn't just any old stranger, dragged in like a wounded dog, bloody and broken and dying. The blonde man who carried him in wasn't a stranger either, and either was the girl. She knew them all. They were all someone before the outbreak, after all.

Though she hadn't seen his eyes opened she knew they were a deep chocolate brown. She hadn't heard his voice apart from the screaming, but she knew it was high and sweet and clear as a bell. She knew his name was Mitch.

She also knew she couldn't stop and stare. She couldn't let the rising feeling of awe freeze her purposeful movements. How could this be real? This couldn't be real because _oh my god, this is him._ This was Mitch Grassi unconscious under her hands. This was his skin, warm against her fingers. His blood on her hands. He was a person she loved. Looked up to. Admired. She knew every tattoo and every feature on his face. Upstairs in this very house, her bedroom desk had a cd from the old world in the drawer that she still played sometimes, and his angelic voice was one that had helped her through so much. He meant so much to her. And he was dying, his pale, pale body lying supine on the table. It lended an even more powerful sense of urgency, and adrenaline pumped intensely in her body. He couldn't die. Scott needed him.

Sarah hung his IV bag off a makeshift hook on the standing lamp that Patricia had pulled close. Her dad worked hard, preparing instruments and emptying the backpacks, several plastic wrappers and pipes dumping on the armchair.

He sifted through them until he found what he needed, then handed them to Sarah, "Honey, I want you in charge of his respirator. Remember what I showed you?"

"Five Mississippi." She responded, nodding, and let Hershel take over.

Hershel's hand slid behind his neck, supporting his head at an angle so his chin pointed upward, then poised a curved instrument over his mouth, "I'm going in." He then inserted the tool between Mitch's lips, gently easing it toward the back of his throat, and ultimately down his windpipe.

Sarah handed him the long, thin tube, which Hershel slid inside Mitch alongside the tool, then removed the curved metal bar, leaving the tube behind. Sarah marvelled at how dainty it looked in his mouth, perched between his teeth and on the center of his lip like a Starbucks straw. She took the pump in her hand as Hershel fastened it to the end of the tube, then frowned as what she'd been taught came back to her. Her hands depressed the balloon, inflating Mitch's lungs with a slow inhale, and her lips formed the words as she relaxed the pressure, "One Mississippi, Two Mississippi…"

Hershel filled a syringe with something from a clear bottle and moved to Mitch's arm where he picked one of the largest raised veins on his… _Antebrachial region?_ Sarah found that it calmed her to try and recall some of the things Hershel had taught her. Carefully, and with steady hands, the needle was forced into his vein and the fluid inside the syringe was injected into his body. Sedative. This was it. He couldn't be given too much because of his delicate state, so this meant they had to be quick. He pulled Mitch's arm from its position beside his body and placed it over his head, freeing space to perform the surgery, and instructed Sarah to hold his wrist so it wouldn't fall off the tabletop.

"Don't look, hon, if you don't want to." He picked up the scalpel.

But she couldn't look away. She depressed the balloon again, feeling his lungs expand with the motion of her hand. This all was so surreal. His life was in her hands right now, his breathing fully under her control and his pulse beating in his wrist. All she had to do was stop pumping and he'd suffocate. "Three Mississippi," she felt her eyes widen as the incision was made in his skin, the surrounding area brown from disinfectant and purple from the internal bleeding. She expected it, but even so, the amount of blood that began to flow was sickening. Hershel caught it in a pan, the thick fluid dark with age and coming in a slow stream down his side, pooling and soaking into a towel that was folded in the pan. There was almost too much to be real. It reminded her of horror movies or gorey TV shows.

But there was more to it than just A positive blood there, manufactured in his marrow and pumping in his veins. It was both a part of Mitch and Scott. She remembered before her life imploded how those two made her feel. She remembered seeing how close they were and wishing they would date, feeling so frustrated when they even kissed in one of their youtube videos and then pretended it didn't happen. She used to think they belonged together. Now their very blood was mingling together in that pan, staining the white towel crimson. There was once a day where she would have felt that familiar flutter of purpose, but now she only looked on in awe. Pumped the bag. Counted to five. Felt his pulse. Saw the symbolism as the blood filled the cooking pan.

Hershel took a pair of forceps and eased them inside the two-inch incision.

This time Sarah looked away. Instead she focused on Mitch's face and noticed how different he looked from those old days. Even though it had only been a few months since the last Superfruit video posted, the brunette had changed exponentially. His facial structure, while still largely the same, looked more rugged and craggy, the skin not as well maintained and covered in little scabbed-over cuts and bruises and the dark shadow of a stubble coming in. His small frame had been replaced with a wiry but much more muscular shape. He had very little body fat, so his skin clung to the muscles that must have formed from the constant work needed to survive.

"Five Mississippi," Pump.

"Sarah, check his pulse." Hershel urged, pulling the skin of the incision open with clamps and giving her a concerned look.

She let go of his wrist for a moment and pressed two fingers where Hershel had shown her. _Jugular vein entering the jugular foramen of his skull_. Labelling helped her breathe more evenly. There it was, constant and soothingly present under her fingers where they depressed the side of his neck, right between the curve of his jaw and the raised ridge of his trachea.

Hershel continued as she nodded shakily, "I want you to watch his pulse. It could stop any time and I need you to be sure to catch it. If it even slows down a little bit, let me know."

"Can we take more blood?" She fought to keep her voice even.

He shook his head, "No. Scott could go into a coma. It's too dangerous."

For now she just ignored the racing of her heart and kept counting to five. One Mississippi. _Abdominis Rectus,_ she labeled his bruised six-pack. Two Mississippi. _External and internal oblique and transversus abdominis,_ the three muscle layers that Hershel had cut through. Three Mississippi.

She almost lost count when Hershel pulled a jagged piece of metal free of the wound. It was so small and hardly seemed capable of doing this much damage.

"Daddy? It's slowed down." Her heart almost stopped in her chest as she noticed that Mitch's pulse had decreased to a weak rhythm, and was a little harder to feel in his wrist.

"Okay, keep tabs on it. We only have a few minutes, tops, before he crashes."

xxx

 _This chapter is dedicated to my friend and reader BadWolf63. She's a sweetheart!_


	9. Chapter 9

Late into the night, Hershel emerged from the house, his face unreadable and one hand occupied by a glass of what looked like orange juice. The other carried Scott's backpack. He'd lost it somewhere in the woods, and he hadn't even thought to worry about it, "Avi brought this."

"How's Mitch?" Scott stood from where he sat anxiously brooding on the porch step, "Is he okay?" He'd been practically tethered to the porch for hours, unwilling to leave, but terrified to enter the house. Instead he'd paced, tapped his foot, rubbed his hands through his hair, bit his lip until it bled, and forced his mind to keep his worst fears at bay. He couldn't afford to think of Hershel putting down his tools and turning his back on Mitch's mangled body, finally dead and pale after the long battle. The bloodstained floor where the gushing wouldn't stop until his heart gave out from the lack of oxygen. His scratched and bruised face, peaceful in eternal sleep as his life left him. The ventilator Otis had died for still perched, useless between his perfect lips … Instead Scott shook his head and rubbed those horrible images from his eyes.

"I got the pieces out and stitched the bleeder. We got him stable, drained the blood, and he's bandaged up."

"That's good," Scott nodded, "He's alive?"

"Yes," Hershel put a hand on his shoulder, the tiniest hint of a smile lighting his somber expression, "We'll see if he makes it through the night. Understand that I can't promise anything, but it looks like the worst has passed. He should be okay if he can make it til morning."

Scott sat down again, the relief making his knees weak, "He's alive."

Hershel joined him on the step, "You should try to get some sleep. Drink something. Change out of those clothes." He offered him the glass.

Scott looked down at himself, realizing that he was indeed covered in dried blood and the neckline of his shirt was damp with sweat. His shoulders were stained the worst from how he'd carried Mitch, and blood had dripped down his torso and arms. Now, the stuff was darkening and clung in flakes to his skin, "I'm okay. I'll stay up." He accepted the juice thankfully. It would help get his blood sugar up.

Hershel nodded, understanding that he couldn't persuade Scott to sleep, "Do you want to see him? He's still sedated and he probably won't wake up for a while, but you can be with him. His heart beats a little stronger when you're there."

"Thank you. For helping him."

Hershel smiled.

"Back in those woods, I didn't know what to do. If you weren't there, he'd have died. Bled out in my arms," He stopped to fight back tears.

"Hey. It's okay. Glad to help. If you weren't there to give blood, he'd have bled out too. Or that other fellow who went to get the supplies."

"Avi."

"Yeah, Avi. Without him, I don't know where we'd be. Or your friends who helped hold him down. We all helped. You did well."

Scott shakily pulled himself to his feet, "It's not over yet." He took his backpack and entered the house, making his way toward the bedroom where Mitch lay. He paused as the sound of crying reached him. Patricia, that woman who'd helped Hershel, was sitting at the kitchen table, sobbing into her hands. Someone must have told her about Otis. He turned away, not wanting to disturb her. He wanted to offer his condolences, but he knew she wouldn't want to see him, a stranger, covered in the blood of the man Otis had died to save.

Scott entered the room, hesitant and anxious. He wasn't sure what to expect. Mitch was in the center of that bed again, carefully placed amid the blankets and pillows. His chest was moving, rising and falling with real, full breaths, not those shallow little pants from the pressure in his abdominal cavity. He was alive. Scott let out a breath of relief. For the first time since he'd hit the ground in the woods, Mitch looked like he might get through this. He did look pale and bruised and sick, but he'd survived getting cut open on a table and losing close to half his blood volume. He'd made it this long.

There was a girl sitting cross-legged on the bed beside him, holding his arm and scrubbing at his skin with a rag. She was blonde and sweet, and she smiled shyly up at him as he entered.

"Hi," He smiled back, tucking his hands in his pockets.

"Hi. I'm Sarah." She broke eye contact and dropped her bloody rag back in the bowl on the nightstand. The rinse water was growing rusty and cloudy with the dried blood.

"Why are you in here?"

"Just wanted to sit with him. I can go." She immediately looked uncomfortable, like she felt out of place.

"No you're okay. I meant, why do you care so much? We're strangers."

"No you're not." She gripped Mitch's hand even tighter, "I didn't want him to be alone. He could go into cardiac arrest and I-we need to catch it if it happens." The girl reached for the rag again, squeezing excess water out and resuming her diligent scrubbing. She seemed scared of Scott, and actively avoided eye contact, instead occupying herself by meticulously cleaning every trace of blood and dirt from Mitch's body.

Scott joined her on the other side of the bed and took Mitch's other hand, "Did we meet before?"

She paused, unsure of what to say, "No. But I know you two. From before."

Realization dawned on Scott's face, "You've heard our music."

"I _loved_ your music. You guys meant a lot to me." She touched the side of Mitch's face, watching over him with earnest, wide eyes, "Isn't it funny how someone like me could know Mitch so long without ever having met him? I felt like I knew him. I knew his favorite color and his family's names and his story. And then he's hurt and bleeding in front of me, and I'm supposed to help Dad cut him open. God, and the way he screamed..." Her face darkened and tears began to brim in her eyes, "I didn't want to meet him like this."

Scott hadn't had a chance to think past the panic and the aching worry, but now he could see that she was only a young girl who'd had to see something terrible. "Oh my god. I'm so sorry."

"But he's gonna be okay, right?"

"Yeah. Yeah he will." He pushed a loose lock of hair off Mitch's forehead.

"Look at him. He looks so sick. He looks like he has two black eyes. And this…" She pulled back the covers. Though the internal bleeding had stopped, the mottled bruising remained, stretched across his abdomen in a massive purple-black smudge. The outer borders were turning greenish, and yellow wisps of bruise were creeping into his pale white skin as the mark aged, "This looks terrible. He shouldn't be here. He should be awake and strong and… Not dying."

"He's not dying, thanks to you. Thank you for helping him, Sarah."

She looked up at him, a tear finally slipping, "You said my name. I knew I'd never meet you and I knew you'd never even look at me, but you just said my _name."_

"I'm just a person." Scott smiled blankly, "It's been so long, it's strange to think that a year ago we were writing an album and going on tours. I've forgotten what it felt like to sing. I'm not that person anymore, Sarah."

"You don't sing anymore?"

"No," Scott shook his head, "None of us do. It's hard to pull stuff from the past."

"Why?"

It was a long, pregnant moment before he responded. His eyes traced the edges of a patch on the old, threadbare quilt that hid Mitch's slender form, "You know how it's hard to go into a house that used to be a friend's or family member's? Or a mall you used to shop at, or a church you used to go to?

Sarah nodded, a ghost of some memory flashing in her eyes.

"Well they're all part of the past. It's never going back to the way it was and now I can't go in that house I grew up in because it's rotting. I can't sing because it brought me the kind of joy I can't ever have again. None of us sing because it hurts to remember."

She seemed to understand that, so she fell silent, her finger repetitively stroking Mitch's cheek.

"You're right. You do seem different. You're sadder."

Scott said nothing.

"I hope Mitch isn't different."

He looked at her, his eyes asking a silent " _Why_?"

"He's kind. Sweet. Gentle. He's strong and fierce and everything I've looked up to. I don't want him to change."

A slow, warm smile grew on Scott's face, his eyes sparkling with a little of their old light, "He has changed. He's more kind. More sweet. Gentler, stronger, and the fiercest thing I've ever met." He bent down to place a kiss on Mitch's forehead, "Why do the worst things happen to the best people?" Scott lowered his head.

"Hershel said if he makes it through tonight, he's in the clear." Sarah didn't know if that helped, but it was comforting to her so she thought it was worth a try.

"That's good." He let the room go silent again.

It still didn't feel real that this man whom Sarah had never met, someone she loved, looked up to, admired, someone whose voice was so angelic it made her cry, was now her dad's patient. Hooked up to tubes. Unconscious, his system loaded up on sedative and IV fluids. Maimed by a ragged bullet hole in his gut. She was _touching_ him, something she longed to do. She'd always wanted to meet him, shake his hand, see him smile at her. She wanted to hug him and laugh with him and hear his soft, melodic voice up close.

Now she finally got to touch him, but only to keep tabs on his pulse and keep breath in his lungs. She got to hear him, but only his screaming in horrific agony as she held him down on the bed. She felt him fighting underneath her hands and she couldn't help him. She watched Hershel push his tools inside his body and twist them until the sounds Mitch made didn't sound human anymore. She saw his blood flow onto the tabletop until it dripped onto the floor. She felt it, hot and thick on her hands. She got to hold his hand, but only to plead with him, to beg him not to slip away. And now she was cleaning blood off his tattoo sleeve so it didn't become a breeding ground for bacteria.

It was all wrong. She didn't want this.

"Was it original?"

Scott looked up, "What?"

"The new album. The one you were working on during the tour. Was it an original? Or was it another cover album?" When Scott didn't say anything she continued, "Please? I'll never get to hear it, but at least I'll know."

A trace of a smile, and he met her gaze with a kind of nostalgic glimmer in his eyes, "Original. I… _We_ were proud of it."

Sarah swallowed, blinking away angry tears, "I just wanted to hear it."

She couldn't tear her eyes away from Mitch's face. At any time, someone might ask her to leave or send her to bed, and she couldn't stop worrying that maybe this would be the last time she saw him alive. The night wasn't over, and he still had so far to go.

"I owe you." Scott finally said, quiet enough that she hardly caught it.

"No you don't. I owe him. I owe you, Kirstie, Kevin, and Avi. You guys got me through my mother's…" She stopped before the tears cut her off and turned her into a sobbing mess.

A knowing look crossed Scott's face. He knew without even looking at her, "She's gone."

Sarah nodded, not trusting her voice to speak.

"I'm sorry." He bent low, and his hand began to rummage in the backpack he kept with him. It was on the floor now, tucked against Scott's chair leg, "This should be yours," he withdrew from the pack, and he held something wrapped in an old, soiled black bandana.

"No, I can't take anything from you." Sarah shook her head and busied herself with rinsing her rag out again.

Scott wordlessly took her hand in his and placed the parcel in her palm.

They made eye contact again, Scott's crystal blue eyes insistent. With shaking fingers, Sarah untucked the edges and pulled the fabric loose. There, blank and holographic, clean and round, was a silver disc in a clear plastic cd case. No graphic decoration, and no writing, save for a tiny sharpie scrawl that read _"vol. 2"_

"Is this?" Her eyes must've doubled in size. They felt like it at least as she stared, not daring to believe.

"Yeah. It's not completed. There's only a three or four whole songs, a couple of voice clips, and maybe some beatbox tracks. Mitch recorded a beautiful solo the day before tour shut down. I think it's on there. It's Pentatonix, Volume II. Our second original album."


End file.
